


Virtue #6 -- Justice

by NyteFlyer



Series: Virtues [6]
Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Relationship, Drama, Gay Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, weddingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyteFlyer/pseuds/NyteFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there is justice in the world after all....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Virtue #6 -- Justice

“Sometimes I think there’s no justice in the world at all,” Timmy said, shoving his glasses up his nose with an angry jab. He switched channels yet again, as if hearing the election results on ABC instead of CNN might alter their outcome somehow, or at least make them easier to swallow. I was sprawled out on the couch next to him, killing time with Spider Solitaire, so I hadn’t been paying much attention. As predicted, it was a sad day for the Democrats, so it was no surprise he wasn’t exactly doing the happy dance. But to add insult to injury, another state -- Kentucky, was it? Or maybe Tennessee? -- had apparently just approved a proposition banning legal recognition of domestic partnerships. In other words, gay marriage. I shut my laptop and braced myself, figuring Timmy was about to blow. Instead, he just stared at the television, his lips compressed into a thin, tight line, and shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” I ventured, slipping my hand into his and giving it what I hoped was a comforting squeeze. I’ve never given a rat’s ass about politics, but this stuff was his life, and the least I could do was show some support. After a moment, he squeezed back.

“It’s not as if we didn‘t see it coming. This trend toward neo-conservatism’s sweeping the country. It’s frightening, but it’s a predictable cycle, and it should reverse itself eventually. At least, I hope it will.” He clicked off the set and turned to look at me, sighing deeply. “Oh, well.” He squeezed my hand again, then patted it and let go. “I don’t know why I’m letting it get to me, anyway. It’s not like it affects us personally. I’m going to bed. You coming?”

“In a second,” I said, watching as he gathered my empty beer bottle, his coffee mug, and the bowl of peanut shells I’d created over the course of the night. As he moved off toward the kitchen, I stayed where I was, stuck in perpetual instant replay mode, hearing again and again the odd note in his voice when he’d said it didn’t affect us personally. I didn’t know if he’d intended to deliver a message there, but I’d received one loud and clear. He’d never tell me, not in a million years. He wouldn’t ask, probably wouldn’t even hint at it to feel out my reaction, just because he was always so damned worried about pressuring me or making me feel suffocated. But there it was, plain as day. I was an idiot for not figuring it out sooner.

Timmy wanted to get married.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Honestly, I can’t say I’ve ever been a fan of the institution. Don’t get me wrong, I thought everybody should have a right to take the plunge if they wanted to -- even second-class citizens like us. I just had no clue why anyone would want to. My parents’ alliance had been bitter and bloody, and when my old man finally disappeared into the night, I think it was a tie who was the most relieved, my mother or me. 

Still, Timmy and I weren’t Carl and Jeanette Strachey. We were together because we wanted to be, not because ten sweaty minutes of unprotected sex in the back seat of a Mustang led to a not-so-happy surprise a couple of weeks later when somebody’s monthlies failed to make their scheduled appearance. We were together, though, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon. I was as sure of his love as I was of my own name, and I knew he felt the same way about me. What was I so afraid of?

Timmy was like oxygen to me, like food and water and sunlight. I already felt as bound to him as one man can be to another, committed to waking up with the same guy drooling on my pillow every day for the rest of my life. So what was the big deal about putting all that on the dotted line? Timmy was a traditional kind of guy, and the ex-seminarian in him loved ceremony and ritual. Of course he would want what everyone else had, the right to stand up in front of his friends and family and show them how much he loved and was loved. 

The more I got my head wrapped around the idea, the more I liked it myself. It would make Timmy so happy, and making him happy always made me happy, too. If we could’ve done it legally, I’d have hauled him down to the court house right then and there. Until that was an option, it looked like we’d have to settle for the next best thing. 

I followed him into the kitchen and found him by the sink, rinsing out my beer bottle before dropping it into the recycling bin. Snaking my arms around him from behind, I stood on tip-toe to nuzzle the back of his neck. “I love you,” I informed him, nipping at his ear.

He turned in my arms and hugged me long and hard. Our mouths connected, and I put everything I had into that kiss, hoping it was getting across even one tenth of everything I’d say to him if I had the words -- how much I loved him, how good he made me feel, how I never wanted to live another day without him by my side. When we finally came up for air, he leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. 

“I love you, too,” he said. “What was that for?”

I shrugged and grinned, then caught him in another lip-lock, my hands roaming under his soft blue cardigan. He was as warm and affectionate as ever, and he made all the right noises of pleasure and encouragement, but there was just enough drag time to his responses to let me know his heart wasn’t really in it. Me, I can go for it anytime, anywhere, but Tim’s not wired that way. He’d never turned me down when I was in the mood, and I knew if I’d pressed the issue, he would have done everything in his power to please me. But he was tense and tired and obviously more than a little bit down, and I knew what he needed more than a tussle between the sheets was some quiet time together, along with a big dose of TLC. So I led him into the bedroom and undressed him like I would a little kid, being careful to get his sweater and pants onto their hangers more or less neatly so he wouldn’t feel obligated to bitch about the mess the next day. Then I stripped down as well and put us both to bed.

I treated him to a long, thorough back massage, paying special attention to his neck and shoulders, because that’s where the tension builds the worst when he’s stressed or upset. He kept thanking me, the words muffled by the pillow, and telling me how good it felt. Afterward, we lay together and traded slow, deep kisses and some sleepy mush talk. Around midnight, I broke it off just long enough to set the alarm and turn off the light, then settled next to him again, gathering him in my arms. Before I knew it, he was dead to the world.

I lay awake all night.

* * * *

The next afternoon, I called it quits early and beat Timmy home by about an hour, which gave me plenty of time to get some wine chilling and to throw something together for dinner. I’m not much to write home about when it comes to cooking, but even I can slap pre-assembled shrimp kabobs on the George Foreman and brush them with teriyaki sauce, dump salad-in-a-bag in a bowl, and nuke instant rice. By the time he came through the door, the table was set, a pair of more or less matching white candles were burning away in the center of the table, and I had the place smelling like a Mongolian grill. I met him with a kiss and a bundle of yellow and white daisies I’d picked up at the grocery on way home and watched the beaten expression on his face melt away like a snow bank in the July sun. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing.

It was going to be a damned good night.

We didn’t talk much over dinner. But then again, we didn’t have to. It was one of those times when the way we looked at each other said it all. He put on some music, something slow and soft with an easy jazz beat, and while I cleared the table, he refilled our glasses and added a few more candles to the mix. We danced for a while right there in that little eat-in kitchen, his head on my shoulder at first, then mine on his, til we’d pause long enough to take a sip of wine and switch off again. 

We went to bed early and made love with all the passion of our first time together but none of the fear, then lay in each others arms for a long time afterward, both of us too lazy and too content to straighten the blanket and turn out the light. Finally, he roused himself enough to pull the covers over us and reached across me to click off the bedside lamp, but stopped when he saw the expression on my face. 

“What is it?” he asked, that little line forming between his eyebrows the way it always did when I started setting off the alarm bells in his head. He looked so freaked out I had to laugh. 

“Nothing, sweetheart,” I said, stroking his cheek. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it?” he asked again, his guard really up by then, the line between his brows turning into a ditch.

I kept rubbing his face reassuringly, my eyes locked on his. “Hey, don’t look so worried. It’s no big deal. I was just wondering…” I paused, searching for words. “I was just wondering what a good date would be for you. I know you’ll want to plan this thing out and invite people. I’ll have to clear my schedule, and you’ll want to ask off for a few days so we can go someplace afterward….”

The rest was cut off when he pounced on me, pinning me to the mattress as he hugged me fiercely. “Soon!” he said. “I want to do it soon!”

* * * *

When Timothy J. Callahan moves on an idea, let me tell you, he _moves_.

I’d braced myself for a long, painful ordeal, expecting him to want something of roughly the same size and scope as Prince Charles’ wedding to Lady Di. Once I’d finally grown a set and asked Timmy to make an honest man of me, I had to admit I was getting kind of excited about the whole thing and itched to get the show on the road. But a huge, elaborate wedding takes time to plan, so I figured his “soon” meant sometime the following year, something June-ish, maybe. I nearly keeled over in shock a couple of nights later when he paused in the middle of sliding a massive hunk of homemade lasagna onto my plate and asked, “How does the second Saturday in December sound to you?”  


“Not an option,” I said, pulling the plate toward me and going in for the kill, rolling my eyes in ecstasy as an orgasmic blend of cheese, Italian seasonings, and the sauce he’d been hovering over all afternoon hit my tongue. “Drag your heels that long, buddy, and somebody else just might come along with a better offer.” 

He set his fork down and looked at me, arms crossed over his chest and right eyebrow disappearing into his hairline. 

My lips twitched. “I don’t want to wait that long,” I said, reaching across to snag one of his hands and pull it toward me, dipping his fingers into the tomato sauce on my plate along the way, then guiding them to my mouth. I sucked them with the enthusiasm I usually reserved for a different part of his anatomy. 

He didn’t try to pull away, but his eyebrow shot even higher. “Donald, we have a wedding to plan! Five weeks is hardly ‘that long’ by anyone’s standards.”

“Five weeks? When you said December, I thought you meant next year.”

He rolled his eyes then and shook his head. But he still wasn‘t making any big push to reclaim his hand. “I meant next month. Darling, do you honestly think I’d give you that much time to get cold feet?”

“Point taken.” I dipped his fingers into my food again, scooping up a little ricotta along with the sauce the second time around. “I know you want to plan something nice, though. Is five weeks gonna give you enough time? You know I‘ll do anything I can to help, but you also know I‘m pretty useless when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

“You’ll be there promising to spend the rest of your life with me. Believe me, it’s going to be nice. All the rest is gravy. Or in this case, marinara,” he said, grinning as I popped his fingers into my mouth once more. “I’ll come up with something we’ll both like. Do you trust me?”

Did I trust him? Only with my life.

* * * *

Every time I thought about the fact that this was real, that I was actually marrying Timmy, I got a weird flutter in my chest, and for maybe half a minute, I’d have a hell of a time trying to draw my next breath. But I was the good kind of excited, not the bad kind, you know? I wasn’t really nervous, just revved and more than ready to get on with it. As fast as December was creeping up on us, the waiting was driving me crazy.

As promised, I stepped back and left most of the planning to Timmy. For what it was worth, I gave him my opinion whenever he scowled at me and said “Whatever you want, honey” wasn’t an answer, but for the most part, I kept my nose out of it.

Timmy’s Catholic and I’m nothing, so he just about worried himself prematurely gray over how to slant the ceremony, spiritually speaking. For my part, I didn’t give a damn what kind of wedding we had as long as we had one and it didn’t drag on long enough to put everybody -- okay, mostly me -- to sleep. In the end, he decided that our wedding wasn’t a religious event, it was an _us_ event, and he wanted to keep it that way. Which was more than all right with me.

I think it kind of surprised him when I said I wanted us to write our own vows. Firing off those generic pieces of crap most people stick to wouldn’t have covered half the stuff I wanted to say to Timmy. I may not be the most articulate guy on the planet, but I don’t like having somebody else put words in my mouth, especially about something as important as my sweetheart and me. I spent a week and a half writing and rewriting the little speech I planned to give, polishing it til it shone and making sure it said everything I thought Timmy needed to know but I’d never gotten around to putting into words before. Then I spent the next three and a half weeks practicing it until I could say it in my sleep, reciting it on my way to work and on my way back home, in front of the bathroom mirror and again in my head when we were watching TV or he was sleeping beside me, dreaming, no doubt, of two-groom cake toppers and tasteful floral arrangements. 

I’d figured Timmy would toss out a guest list of several hundred people, want about twenty attendants and a full orchestra playing the wedding march. Instead, he informed me that we were keeping the guest list in the 35-50 range, and that Grandma Liz had offered both her estate and the services of her household staff for the event so we wouldn’t have to worry about renting a place or hiring someone to cater the reception. The old girl herself would provide the music on her baby grand. 

I can’t say I was much help to him when it came to picking out the selections. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as much into music as the next guy, but I don’t think Korn or some vintage Aerosmith would’ve exactly set the tone Timmy was shooting for. He must’ve made me listen to a thousand pieces of long-hair stuff over the weeks leading up to the wedding, and to tell the truth, it all pretty much sounded the same to me. Only two pieces stuck out: “Ode to Joy” by Beethoven and “Joy” by Bach. Or was it the other way around? I only remember the names because the composers both started with B and the titles were so much alike and sounded like the music itself -- pure, busting out of your skin happiness, the kind I felt when Timmy kissed me, or made me cum, or sent me a text message in the middle of the day just to say he was thinking about me. Those were the two pieces Timmy went with for the beginning of the ceremony and for the end. He said they were beautiful and completely appropriate, and that Liz would do a wonderful job with them on her Steinway. Mostly, I think he picked them because he wanted to please me.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved when he nixed the idea of attendants, saying neither of us were exactly blushing brides, and we could make it to the altar just fine all by ourselves, thank you very much. He’d never admit it, but I know he did it to spare my feelings. He had a dozen friends who would have been thrilled shitless to stand up for him, and I just flat out didn’t know anybody who‘d be interested in doing the same for me. Sure, I had a few drinking buddies I used to hit the bars with, but I’d never gone as far as exchanging last names with most of them, let alone gotten close enough to have them riding shotgun on the most important day of my life. Before I hooked up with Timmy, I’d pretty much flown solo. I know it upset him some that I didn’t contribute any names to the guest list, but when I said the only person I cared about sharing the day with was him, and as long as he didn’t forget to show up, I was good, he let it rest.

Timmy’s father was conveniently scheduled to be out of town on urgent state business the week of the wedding, so he wouldn’t be able to attend. Timmy tried to act like it didn’t hurt like hell, but he’s a lousy actor. Besides, I know him better than that. It made me fucking furious, and I wished I’d taken a crack at rearranging the old bastard’s face when I’d had the chance. But his mother was going to be there, and she was so thrilled for us both and so interested and willing to pitch in and help any way she could, it overshadowed the situation with his dad. At least I hope it did.

We only really fell out over one thing, and that was the fact that Timmy seemed to take it personally when I wouldn’t invite my parents. Asking my dad to come was out of the question, of course. I hadn’t laid eyes on him since the day he walked out on us, and I had no idea where he’d ended up or even if he was still alive, which was okay by me. But Timmy’s kind of thin-skinned in some ways, and he took it to mean I wasn’t proud of him, that maybe I was ashamed to be saying my I-dos to a guy, when I said I wanted to leave my mom out of the mix. 

The truth was, she and I had never exactly been close. She’d never lifted a finger to stop my father when he was smacking me around, which I can understand in a way, because if she’d tried to interfere, he probably would have put her through a wall. Once he was out of the picture, she spent most of her spare time letting me know how much I reminded her of him and how much of a disappointment I was to her. Then I got kicked out of the army and out of the closet all in one shot, and she made it clear I was never supposed to darken her doorway again. So much for motherly love, right?

I’d never mentioned anything about my family to Timmy, and he’d never asked, though I knew he’d been wanting to. I tried to explain the bare bones of this to him the best I could without going into the whole Kyle thing or making it sound like I was throwing myself a pity party. Being Timmy, he read between the lines the way he always did and figured out it was all more of a big hairy deal than I was making it out to be. Also being Timmy, he didn’t push for details, just put his arms around me and kept saying he was sorry, he was so, so sorry in a choked voice. Before the night was done, we’d made the most tender, intense love two men can make -- twice in the living room and once again in bed, as a matter of fact. And I’d caved and given him my mother’s address, or at least what I assumed was still my mother’s address, and told him he could send her a wedding invitation if he wanted but to leave me out of it. 

Timmy’s not naïve, really. But he is…I dunno…unworldly, maybe? I think he actually believed that if we reached out to my mother, she’d put all her prejudices aside and welcome me back with open arms. He’s a logical, rational man, see, and he expects everyone in the world to act in a logical, rational manner. The way he saw it, it would be totally illogical for any mother to reject her son for being gay once she saw he was happy and settled and embracing something as normal and traditional as marriage, even if it was to another man. 

Obviously, he didn’t know what he was up against.

About a week later, I got home just as Timmy was going through the mail. Swear to God, the man could have been an OCD poster child. Organized to the point of insanity, he sorted it all out first, making four neat stacks: bills, ads, RSVPs, and miscellaneous. I made myself a sandwich and watched him attack the bills first, arranging them according to due date before setting them aside. Then he went through the ads, slipping the ones with coupons he thought we’d use into an accordion folder before throwing the rest away. The RSVPs were opened and sorted according to a yes pile and a no pile, of course. There were lots of yeses and hardly any noes, which had him looking so pleased I just had to reach across the counter and give his hand a quick squeeze. He squeezed back, smiling that blinding smile that made it next to impossible for me to keep my hands off of him, then let go and went to work on the miscellaneous stack. I saw him touch a large clasp envelope and hesitate, his smile fading. He shot me a weird glance as he opened it, then peered inside like he expected something to shoot out of the envelope and bite his face off. He made a funny noise then and shot me another glance, this time looking sick through and through.

“What is it?” I asked, rushing to hover over him, he was scaring me so bad. 

Without saying a word, he turned the envelope upside down and poured the contents onto the counter. Shredded paper, pictures, the remains of a wedding invitation. Some of the pieces were so small they looked like confetti, and others were bigger -- intentionally, I suspected, so we’d be sure to see what they’d once been part of. My birth certificate. Inoculation records. Crayon snowmen from a Christmas card I’d made when I was a kid. A certificate, probably for perfect attendance since I’d never exactly set the academic world on fire.

Mom. 

“Welcome to the Strachey family,” I said, picking up a handful of fragments and letting them sift through my fingers.

Timmy was searching through the pile, pulling out jagged slivers of Kodak paper and arranging them like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. A black and white snapshot taken in the hospital the day I was born took shape under his fingers. A school picture of me in that red plaid shirt I always hated, my hair so plastered down with the gel Mom made me use that it looked like it was glued to my forehead. 

“I just don’t get this,” he said, looking like he was gonna puke at any moment. The way I was feeling, I figured I might just beat him to it.

“What don’t you get?” I said, suddenly furious with him, though God knows he was the last person on the planet to deserve it. “The kid in these pictures grew up to be something so disgusting she had to kill him off any way she could. He no longer exists. I no longer fucking exist!”

“Don,” he said, reaching for me. I backed away. I couldn’t stand the thought of being touched right then, couldn’t bear the look in his eyes, the dawning comprehension that while he meant everything to his own mother, I was less than nothing to mine. “Donald, listen to me.”

But I couldn’t listen, couldn’t let him draw me into his arms the way I knew he wanted to, couldn’t bear up under the weight of his attempts to comfort me. Some things just run too deep to be comforted. 

I ran.

* * * *

Somewhere around two a.m. I came crawling back, of course, feeling every bit like the piece of shit I guess I was. My feet were blistered and throbbing from running for miles in the wrong kind of shoes, and my head ached. I knew I stank, that I reeked of stale sweat, stale beer and cigarettes, stale fury. I didn’t want to wake Tim, but I needed a shower bad and couldn’t very well climb in bed beside him when I smelled like that. I left my shoes at the door and the lights off and eased past the bed on my way to the bathroom, listening to make sure his breathing stayed slow and even. But I heard him swallow and realized he wasn’t sleeping at all, that he’d probably been lying there alone in the dark for hours, thinking the worst. I crawled across the bed and wriggled in beside him, holding him as hard as I could without cracking a rib. He was stiff in my arms, unresponsive, unmoving.

“Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”

He swallowed again. “Did you…” 

He knew my history. Considering the way I smelled, what else could he think? “No! Oh God, no! I went for a run to blow off steam, then I stopped by The Pit for a few beers. For some reason, getting shit-faced drunk sounded like a good idea at the time.“

“Was it?“

“Is it ever? I don’t know why I let her get to me like she did. I shouldn’t have run out on you like that. I’m so sorry I made you worry.”

He turned toward me at last, clammy skin and toxic body odor be damned, and wrapped himself around me. “You’re nearly frozen,” he said. “I’ve got to get you warm.” I burrowed in, happily losing myself in the pure, unrelenting warmth that was Timmy. “I feel terrible about all this,” he said. “You didn’t want to send that damned invitation in the first place, but I forced the issue. All it did is give her one more chance to hurt you. Can you forgive me?“

“Shhhh.“ I kissed him long and slow, exploring the hot, pulpy interior of his mouth with my tongue. I felt him stiffen, and he pulled back so he could look at me.

“You’ve been bleeding,” he said, touching my lip.

“Some asswipe put his hands on me, and I popped him in the mouth. Guess he thought he should return the favor.”

“God, Donald….”

I rolled us both over so I could straddle him, my hands on either side of his shoulders and my groin pressing firmly against his.

“I didn’t want it, Timmy. I didn’t ask for it. Look, I was no saint in the past. You know that. But I swear all that stopped the first time you danced with me. I’m making you a promise, honey, and you can take it to the bank. I’ve never cheated on you, and I never will. As long as I live, I’ll always be faithful to you, okay?”

“Okay,“ he said softly. Then he pulled me down on top of him, and you could say we tabled the discussion for the rest of the night.  


*  *  *  *

  
It wasn’t so much a sound that woke me up as a sense of emptiness, the sudden realization that Timmy was no longer in bed beside me. We’d driven down to his grandmother’s for a big family dinner the evening before, then spent the night in a guest suite twice the size of our whole apartment. As I stretched my hand across the covers and fought to pry my eyes open, I felt an irrational flutter of panic the way I always do when I wake up and he’s gone. I sat up, getting ready to call his name, when I heard a soft clink from the adjoining bathroom, followed by the sound of water running. I looked at the clock and winced. The wedding wasn’t til four, for chrissake. What was he doing up so goddamned early?  


  
Still groggy as hell, I forced myself out of bed and onto my feet, then stumbled into the white and gold cavern of a bathroom, coming up beside him as he brushed his teeth. I lifted his arm and positioned it across my shoulders, then snuggled in tight against his side. He smelled so good, all damp and warm from the shower, I almost felt guilty touching him. I probably smelled like sleep and stale cum, overlaid with that double shot of Belvedere I’d knocked back before turning in. But he didn’t act like I was contaminating him or anything. He squeezed my shoulder and grinned at me through a greenish film of organic toothpaste, bumping my hip with his own.  


  
“You left me,” I whined.  


  
He spit and rinsed, then spit again and spent a full minute running his toothbrush under the tap, rubbing the bristles with his thumb until he decided it was hygienically sound enough to return to its holder. Then he hugged me tight and planted a smacking kiss on my forehead.  


  
“Good morning, sleepyhead. I’ve got six o‘clock Mass, remember?”  


  
“Oh, yeah.” We may have been leaving religion out of the ceremony itself, but it was still important to Timmy that he feel spiritually connected that day. So Cam Briggs, one of his few friends from the seminary who still bothered to keep in touch, had offered to show up at the ass crack of dawn and say a sunrise service for the family and as many friends as cared to attend. It didn’t exactly make up for the fact that the Church would never recognize marriage vows exchanged by a couple of queers as a sacred bond, but it made Timmy feel a little better about the whole thing, just the same.  


  
I hadn’t been specifically invited to attend, but I hadn’t been specifically asked to stay away, either. I think Timmy just sort of assumed I wouldn’t be interested and left it at that. To tell the truth, I’d pretty much assumed the same thing. Except for Liz, who rolled her eyes and declared herself a “spiritual freelancer,“ the Callahans were all dead serious about this religious stuff, and the last thing I wanted to be was an unwanted intrusion. But suddenly it freaked me out a little, thinking about being apart from him that day.  


  
I gave him a peck on the cheek and reluctantly pried myself loose, then lifted the toilet seat so I could take a long, contemplative piss. He hugged me from behind as I was finishing up, nuzzled my neck and gave my earlobe a good, solid nip.  


  
“Katie’s putting together a huge country breakfast for after Mass. I have it on good authority that she’s making eggs Benedict.”  


  
Timmy’s cooking had broadened my horizons, gastronomically speaking. I’d recently declared hollandaise sauce one of the four major food groups, and Timmy must have passed the word along to his grandmother‘s cook.  


  
“I’ll be there,” I said, leaning back against him. “Now go get ready or you’ll be late.”  


  
He hesitated for a heartbeat before letting go. And in that instant’s hesitation, I heard an invitation come through loud and clear. As usual, he wouldn’t ask because he didn’t want to put me on the spot. But I was pretty sure he wished he didn’t have to ask, just the same.  


  
He _shouldn’t_ have to ask. Not for something like that. Not from me. And not on our wedding day.  


  
As Timmy moved off to get dressed, I jumped in the shower long enough to kill my morning funk and to give my scalp a quick scrub, then brushed my teeth and shaved as fast as I could without making my face look like a crime scene photo. He’d already gone downstairs to meet the rest of the churchy set before heading to the chapel, so they’d probably be seated and ready to roll before I finished dealing with the knot in my tie. I dressed fast, taking it as a good omen when my tie more or less cooperated for a change, and hurried down a staircase that put the one from _Gone with the Wind_ to shame. I took a shortcut through the kitchen, yelling a quick good morning to Katie as I shot out the back door.  


  
Timmy and the rest of the clan had driven down to the family chapel by the lake, but I decided to walk instead, taking a more direct route across the back lawn. It was still dark out, but the night was starting to wear itself thin around the edges. Timmy and Marion had both gone on about how spectacular sunrise was in the chapel, and I was kind of curious to see what all the fuss was about. It was also cold as hell, and God knows I’ve never been much of a winter person. But it was a clean, fresh kind of cold, sort of pure, you know? I remember there was a heavy frost on, so heavy it almost looked like snow, and the stiff, white spikes of grass crunched under my feet. I ran at first, just to warm up and to burn off a sudden case of the jitters, but halfway there I slowed down to a walk so I could get my breathing under control.  


  
At the door, I wavered, second guessing myself. I _hadn’t_ been invited, and for a single paranoid moment, I wondered if that was on purpose, if the family would consider me a _persona non grata_ if I crashed the service. To be honest, I was also struggling with my own discomfort over the whole organized religion thing. I hadn’t been in a church in years and halfway expected a lightning bolt to come out of the sky and zap me the second I stepped inside. My father’s side of the family was mostly Presbyterian, I think, but Mom brought me up Methodist, or at least tried to. I never bought into it and stopped letting her drag me to church the second I was old enough to put my foot down and not get smacked into next Tuesday for doing it. Like a lot of protestants, she took a dim view of Catholicism and probably would have disowned me all over again if she’d known I was not only marrying a guy, but one of Them.  


  
Fuck ‘em. I was there for Timmy, so who gave a rat’s ass what anyone else thought? I slipped through the door just as everybody was settling into place. There were about fifteen people there, a pretty good showing for that hour of the morning, if you ask me. Timmy was right up front like I knew he would be, sitting next to his mother. I walked up to them along the side by the wall instead of coming down the center aisle so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. Marion spotted me first, and her smile was so bright and so wide I knew exactly where Timmy’d gotten his from. She slid down the pew to make room for me. Then Timmy looked up, and the look of pure happiness he sent my way made all my doubts go away. As I settled between him and his mom, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.  


  
“Thank you.” He mouthed the words, not making a sound. Then that little dent between his eyebrows appeared, and he let go of my hand long enough to attack my tie, fiddling with the knot until it gave up the fight and lay down in submission just the way he wanted it to. I grinned and let him have at it. I’d long since figured out that he didn’t mean this stuff as criticism. In his mind, fussing over my appearance was just one of the ways he looked after me. When he was done, he took my hand again and pulled it into his lap, holding it in both of his.  


  
I’d never been to mass before, so I’d assumed the whole thing would seem alien and exotic. It was pretty much the same as a protestant service, though, except there was more standing and some kneeling involved, and there was a lot less music. For some reason, I’d expected the service to be in Latin, and was relieved when the priest spoke in English instead. Not that I had a clue what was going on. I stood when Timmy stood and knelt when he knelt, did my best to stay awake during the sermon and just kept my mouth shut and tried to look respectful when everybody joined in responses I didn’t recognize.  


  
I had plenty of time to check out the chapel in the hour or so we sat there. I’m not much on churches, but even I had to admit this one was nice. It was small -- it probably seated fifty or sixty people max -- and kind of cozy. The whole place smelled like lemon furniture polish and candles. Everything there was some combination of red and gold, including the four stained glass windows along the side walls. But it was the window above the altar that really caught my eye. The designs in the others were abstracts, but this was a red rose, about six feet high and four across, set against a yellow-gold background. An Irish rose, I remembered Timmy telling me. His great-great-grandfather Calbert Callahan had added this chapel to the estate when he married great-great-grandma Rose back in the late 1800s. Callahan marriages had taken place there ever since. So had christenings and first communions, funerals, Christmas and Easter celebrations, you name it. It made me feel good to be part of that history, that kind of tradition.  


  
Mostly, though, I just sat there and watched Timmy. I’d never seen this part of him before, though I’d known it existed, of course. I knew all about what happened in the seminary, that he attended mass sometimes and that his faith was still more important to him than anything, except maybe me. In a way, I’d almost been afraid of seeing him like this, so caught up in his spirituality, his religion, because I’d thought he’d seem different to me somehow, like a stranger almost. But he was still Timmy, my lover and my very best friend. He just seemed a little calmer than he was at home, more serene, more at peace.  


  
I’ve decided that religious fervor, like romance and comedy, is pretty much just a matter of good timing. Right as the priest presented the sacrament, the sun hit that big rose window, and I understood what the big deal was all about. “This is my body, which is given for you,“ he said as the whole building lit up, bathing everything and everyone in it in soft rose and gold tones. Everybody made a surprised noise when it happened, like they’d all just witnessed a miracle. I’m not gonna lie to you, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. But for me, it wasn’t a religious experience, it was a Timmy experience. He looked so beautiful right then, with the rosy light making that fair Irish skin of his glow, that it just about took my breath away. When he caught me staring, he smiled at me, his eyes crinkling around the corners, and he raised my hand to his lips before turning his attention back to the priest.  


  
Timmy’d spent some time alone with Father Cam the night before, offering his confession so he’d be able to take communion. When he rose to take his place in line, I stayed seated, knowing I couldn’t join in because I wasn’t one of the fold, so to speak. But Timmy tugged at my hand, so even though I felt awkward as hell, I stood and walked along beside him. Back home at the United Methodist, wine was offered in individual shot glasses and everybody pinched a bite off a fresh loaf of bread the preacher’s wife baked for the occasion. Here, everyone drank from the same cup, which seemed kind of unsanitary to me, even though the priest wiped it clean each time with a white cloth. When Timmy’s turn came, I watched, fascinated, as he opened his mouth and allowed Cam to place what looked like a round piece of Styrofoam on his tongue. I was struck by the intimacy, the almost sexual nature of the act. After Timmy took his sip of wine, he looked me dead in the eye and kissed me right there in front of everybody, like he was passing part of the blessing on to me. His lips were warm and tasted like grapes, and I felt blessed in more ways than one.  


  
Afterward, we gathered in Liz’s dining room for a meal of…well…biblical proportions. There were stacks of French toast and pancakes, fresh fruit, pastries, ham and sausage and bacon, and every style of egg under the sun. While Timmy chatted up the relatives, I sat there quietly stuffing my face with my fourth round of eggs Benedict, grinning like the happy hog I was as Katie ladled extra hollandaise over my plate.  


  
“You’re going to be sick,” Timmy whispered between nibbles on his English muffin. I think the pre-wedding jitters were setting in, and he was too wired to eat.  


  
“No way. Hollandaise is nature’s perfect food.”  


  
“I never should have introduced you to the stuff,“ he said, wiping the sauce off my chin with his own napkin. “It’s bad form for one of the grooms to have to be carried in on a stretcher, you know. It’ll be a miracle if you don’t throw up on the wedding cake.”  


  
I washed a mouthful of eggy heaven down with a swig of my mimosa and patted his hand. “You’re making an honest man of me, so it’s obviously a day for miracles. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get through it all without a glitch, you’ll see.”  


  
Once we’d all had more than enough to eat, we wandered into the next room and spent the next couple of hours there, just hanging out while Timmy made small talk and I digested. Several of his aunts and uncles were already there, and more cousins and childhood friends wandered in as the day went on. Liz hadn’t made an appearance yet, and I missed her. But she’d warned me the night before that we probably wouldn’t be seeing much of her before the ceremony. “Civilized people go to bed at four a.m. and get up at noon,“ she’d told me, “and I am nothing if not civilized.“ Marion popped in and out from time to time, greeting newcomers and pausing long enough to plant a kiss on Timmy’s forehead or give my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. She had her hands full, seeing to the decorations and seating arrangements in the drawing room, where we’d be saying our vows later that afternoon, and overseeing Katie and the rest of the staff in the kitchen, where they were already hard at work on hors d’oeuvres for the reception. She was flushed and a little breathless, but seemed happy as a clam, the way most moms would be, I guess, on their son’s wedding day.  


  
Timmy tried valiantly to include me in the conversation, and everyone was nice to me and genuinely friendly. I laughed at the stories about all the cute things he said or did when he was a kid, flipped through every family album that was shoved in my lap and made all the appropriate comments, but mostly I just reverted to my P.I. training and observed. In spite of his father’s all-to-obvious absence, it was clear Tim was still Clan Callahan’s fair-haired boy, and I was touched to see how comfortable everyone seemed to be with our situation, how much they all genuinely loved him.  


  
Occasionally, I felt a tug of something like depression and had to block out images of my own childhood, which had been so different from his in every way. I didn’t resent the way Timmy had been brought up, I just wished my background had been a little more like his. Around noon, I started to get antsy. Unless I’m on the job or curled up in bed with Tim, I have a hard time staying still for long. It was too warm in the room, and with all those people milling around, the walls were starting to close in. Besides, all that rich food was doing a number on my insides, and it was all I could do not to squirm. When Timmy noticed, he excused himself and ran upstairs for our jackets, then extracted me from the circle of old ladies showing me his baby pictures and hauled me outside for a walk.  


  
On the way out, we passed Liz’s gardener, Phil, and his son, Ted. The florist’s van was parked by the rear entrance, and they were hauling in massive plants and boxes of seasonal stuff like holly and pine. We’d agreed -- meaning Timmy assumed it was what I wanted and ran with it -- that the backdrop for our ceremony should have a very masculine feel. So as much as he loved flowers, he’d decided to keep them to a minimum and go with lots of ferns and other types of greenery instead. As Phil walked by, loaded down with two of the biggest ferns I’d ever seen, he nodded and smiled, but Ted looked the other way, remembering, probably, the night Liz embarrassed him after he’d made goo-goo eyes at Tim. If I hadn’t felt like I was gonna double over at any moment, I would’ve gotten a good laugh out of it.  


  
Once we cleared the house, Timmy took a quick look around to make sure nobody else was around, then pulled me against him so hard and fast all that sudden pressure against my midsection made me crack one off loud enough for them to hear it back in Albany. “Honestly!“ he said in his best long-suffering voice as I sagged against him, groaning in relief. Muttering something I couldn’t quite make out, he tightened his grip around my waist and started patting my back like I was baby fresh off the bottle. My stomach was killing me, and the pressure of his belly against mine felt good. After a couple of minutes, I belched long and loud. For once, he didn’t bitch about my lack of manners. He just rolled his eyes and went right on patting. After another huge burp or two and a few more none-too-dainty farts, I started to feel a lot better and kissed his cheek in thanks.  


  
“Not that you ever _listen_ ,” he grumbled. But he kissed me back, covering my mouth with his own without complaint one about stinky egg breath, and the lecture ended with that. Once we came up for air, I offered him my elbow and we walked toward the lake arm-in-arm, stopping to check out the family cemetery, where he gave me a condensed version of Callahan History 101.  


  
“This cemetery goes back six generations back, and it’s filling up fast. We’re going to have to move that stone wall and expand if we’re going to fit many more people in here. There’s still plenty of room for this generation, though. My parents will be buried there,” he said, pointing, “and there’s a spot for Kelly and her spouse if she ever….”  


  
I nudged his shoulder, trying to distract him. It was easy to forget that in spite of his privileged upbringing, it hadn’t exactly been all sunshine and lollipops for him, either. I didn’t want him dwelling on the sad stuff on a day that was supposed to be all about feeling happy.  


  
“What about you?” I asked.  


  
“We’ll be over there,” he said, pointing again. Then he got all flustered and started backpedaling. “I mean there are two spaces over there if we…if you decide you want….”  


  
“Of course I want,” I said, kissing him again so he’d shut up. “I gotta admit, I’ve always kinda liked the idea of cremation, though. I think about it sometimes, what it would be like to have our ashes mixed together, then scattered on the wind.”  


  
He looked at me in mock horror. “My God, Donald, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were turning into a hopeless romantic!”  


  
I wriggled my eyebrows at him. “The question is, a hopeless romantic what?”  


  
“Hmmm. Good point. Well, I don’t see why we couldn’t do both. We could put up a headstone and have part of our ashes buried here, and have the other half scattered somewhere appropriate. That way, everybody’s happy.”  


  
“I’m happy,” I said. You’d have thought all that talk about burial and cremation would have brought me down, and God knows the thought of anything happening to Timmy gave me the screaming horrors. But somehow, knowing everything was settled, that our happily-ever-after was really going to mean _ever after_ gave me an incredible sense of peace.  


  
We made a circuit around the chapel so I could get a better look at it in the light of day, then we found a bench by the lake and sat quietly for a while, just feeling good about being alone together and watching the water ripple. He leaned back against me, his head resting on my shoulder, and I put my arms around him, feeling all husbandly and protective.  


  
“Thank you for coming with me this morning,” he said, lacing his fingers through mine. “I know church isn’t exactly your thing, but it meant the world to me.”  


  
“Consider it a wedding present,” I said, rubbing my face back and forth through his hair.  


  
“Actually, I have one for you, too. I feel a little strange giving it to you, though.” He sat up and fished an envelope out of his pocket, then held it, gnawing on his bottom lip, before handing it over. Inside were two photos of him, one as a boy of about six or so, and the other of him as a baby.  


  
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll carry them in my wallet so I can have them with me all the time, okay?”  


  
“I was hoping you would. I picked them because they match the ones I have in mine.” He pulled out his wallet then and showed me a pair of pieced together photos, one a black and white baby pic and the other a shot of me when I was in first grade. The pictures my mother had sent back with the wedding invitation, all torn to shreds.  


  
“You kept them.” I didn’t know what else to say.  


  
“I did. I glued them back together, and they’ve been with me ever since. Look, Don, I’m not telling you this to upset you. I just need you to know that I saved these, that the little boy in those pictures didn’t just wink out of existence because your mother turned her back on you. She may have ripped up a couple of pictures, but that doesn’t mean she destroyed any part of who you are or who you were. I don’t give a damn what she thinks. There is no part of you that isn’t precious to me, do you understand that? There is no part of you -- past, present, or future -- that isn’t safe in my hands. So I’m going to hold on to these for you and love all of you, even the parts of you I don’t know yet. And when you’re finally ready to share everything, I’ll be here to listen, okay? I’ll always accept you for who you are, and I’ll always understand.”  


  
“I know,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut and hugging him for all I was worth. “I _know_.”  


  
* * * *  


  
No doubt about it, the waiting was killing me.  


  
I don’t know what I would have done if we’d gone the traditional route and not been able to see each other before the wedding. Nixing that idea had been Timmy’s call, probably because he knew better than to let me out of sight for even a second as the time before the ceremony grew shorter and shorter. As it was, I was a bundle of nerves, and I didn‘t even know why. I wanted this. I mean I really wanted this, more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life. But the day had been a long one and emotional as hell, and I’d just about reached the point where I wanted to crawl into a dark hole with Timmy and never come out again. Left to my own devices, I probably would have gone out of my mind, or maybe jumped out a window and run for my life. But my life was right there in the room with me, fussing with my tie and picking microscopic dust specks off my lapel.  


  
By four o’clock on the dot, we stood facing each other in the middle of Liz’s drawing room, listening to her pound out one of the joy songs by one of the B guys on her baby grand. The 35-50 person guest list had somehow expanded to something more in the 75-90 range, and it was so crowded guests had to line up along the walls to fit in. Timmy looked like something off the cover of _GQ_ in his classic black penguin suit, and I guess I looked okay in mine, too, only more wild-eyed and sweaty, I suppose. He looked almost as nervous as I felt, but happy, and a damned sight less out of his element. Me, I was lost. Totally fucking flat out lost. But both of his hands were in both of mine, steadying me. Steadying him, too, I think.  


  
Father Cam was with us, sans white collar, wearing a basic, no-frills tux and the most secular-looking red paisley vest I’d ever seen. He wasn’t there as clergy, but as a friend. Instead of officiating in the traditional sense, he was playing a civilian and kind of MCing the event, showing us where to stand and giving us cues when we needed it. I’m glad someone was on the ball, because I was wiped out and excited and scared shitless all at once. I remember wishing like hell someone would crack open a window because my stomach was churning again, and I didn’t want to give Timmy the satisfaction of saying “I told you so” when I hurled all over his designer shoes.  


  
Liz wrapped up the piano thing, and Father Cam went into a brief welcoming spiel. My grip on Timmy’s hands got tighter and maybe a little more desperate. Once Cam was done, we were supposed to exchange the vows we’d written, and I had stupidly volunteered to go first. I went over my little speech in my head one last time, a condensed version like a checklist, just to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything out. But I was having a hell of a time trying to focus. Sweat trickled down my neck, and when I tried to suck in some air, damned little of it made its way to my lungs.  


  
I saw Timmy looking a question at me, the nervous excitement in his eyes turning to worry. I shook my head, trying to reassure him that I wasn’t planning on keeling over from pure, irrational terror anytime soon. I just wished I could have reassured myself.  


  
Cam finished talking and gave me my cue. At least I think he did. His lips were moving, but the only thing I could hear was the rush of some phantom ocean, like the sound you hear when you hold a seashell next to your ear. All eyes were on me, I guess, but I really couldn’t see any of them because the world had taken on a dark red cast and it shimmered around the edges, shaking and pulsing in time with the erratic beat of my heart.  


  
I remember making it as far as, “From the moment we met, I knew I’d be stronger with you by my side than I could ever be alone.“ Then something inside my head went _crrrackkk!_ like a transformer blowing in the middle of an ice storm, and I guess you could say all my lights went out. When they blinked on again, I was sitting on a loveseat someone had vacated for us with my face buried against Timmy’s neck, bawling like a baby. It had to have scared him to death, seeing me fall apart like that, but he kept his head and didn’t ask anything stupid like if I was all right or did I want to call the whole thing off. That was the last thing I wanted to do, and I guess even then he had the good sense to realize it. He just kept holding on tight and calling me baby, stroking my hair and rubbing my back in firm, soothing circles until I ran dry. Then he wiped my eyes and kissed me very gently, shushing me when I tried to tell him I was sorry.  


  
“What do you want to do?” he asked.  


  
“I have to tell you what I wrote. I worked so hard….”  


  
“Then tell me,” he said.  


  
My face felt like it had been seared over a high flame. I can safely say I‘ve never been more humiliated in my whole life. I lifted my head long enough to look around the room full of Timmy‘s nearest and dearest, imagining they were all staring at me in some combination of curiosity and horror, wondering what kind of scene I was planning to make next. But Timmy put his hands on either side of my face like a pair of blinders on a horse and made me hone in on him instead.  


  
“Don’t tell them, Donald,” he said. “Tell me. There’s no one here but you and me, okay? Just take a deep breath and tell me why you want to marry me.” Then he neatly tucked my head back under his chin and wrapped his arms around me, enfolding me in a soothing blanket of pure Timmyness. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the warm, clean scent of his skin mixed with the faintly sweet earthiness of his cologne, the familiar sound of his breathing, the press of his hand against the back of my neck. Then I did what he asked and recited the whole thing, the words shaky and garbled, muffled against the damp and crumpled shoulder of his tux. I have no idea how much of it he was able to make out, but I don’t guess it really mattered. The cool thing about Timmy was, when it came to me, he always understood a hell of a lot more than he actually heard.  


  
“Thank you,” he said when I was done. He pressed his lips to my temple, then said his piece as well, whispering it into my ear as if it was nobody’s business but our own. The sound of his voice calmed me down, and I was finally able to stand, clutching his hand, and help light the unity candle without managing to burn the place to the ground. Then we exchanged rings and sealed the deal with a kiss. And that, as they say, was that.  


  
Thirty minutes later, I was still clutching Timmy’s hand as we accepted congrats from a roomful of people who were all polite enough to pretend I hadn’t just imploded before their very eyes. Suddenly starving, I let go of him just long enough to fill my plate at the buffet Katie and the other ladies had fixed for us, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw it wasn’t all a bunch of fancy French dishes I didn’t know how to pronounce, let alone eat. I’d been afraid it would all be oysters and snails and over-salted fish eggs, maybe some boiled-alive crustaceans that might taste just fine but still looked disturbing as hell staring back at you from the center of your plate.  


  
I should have known Timmy would plan the spread with me in mind. What I saw was just plain good food presented with what the restaurant reviews he sometimes read to me would probably call “casual elegance.” There were plenty of appetizers, including shrimp and crab, but luckily nothing with the eyes still attached. The headliner was that roast pork dish with apricots and cherries I loved so much, heavy on the ginger just the way I liked it. If you weren’t into pork, there was chicken Florentine instead, plus garlic potatoes, lots of fresh bread, baby carrots, and mounds of steamed asparagus with sides of hollandaise and garlic butter so everyone could have their choice. I froze with the ladle full of sauce in my hand, nailed by the poisonous glare Timmy shot my way. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decided to behave myself for once and only take a little bit.  


  
As black tie events go, our reception wasn’t half bad. Over the next few hours, we drank champagne and accepted gifts, posed for about a thousand pictures, made the rounds with the guests and, of course, danced. Timmy and I each took Marion for a couple of spins around the room, and Liz got her turn with each of us, too. Dancing with Liz was kinda like dancing with a chandelier -- she shimmered and sparkled in an insanely low-cut gown covered in crystal beads and black and silver spangles.  


  
“Scandalous,“ she told me, “I look positively scandalous!“ and I couldn’t help but agree. Once I got past my fear of being electrocuted by the energy field that dress was putting out, I tried to thank her properly for all she’d done for us, opening her home to me the way she had and providing the space and music and all that incredible food for our wedding.  


  
“Just because my son’s an ass doesn’t mean that the rest of us are,” she said. “Since the day he was born, T.J. has been the light of my life, and you’re clearly the light of his. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you family. Besides, you’re young and charming and easy on the eye, and I’ve been a widow far too long. At my age, any thrills that come my way may be vicarious ones, but I savor them just the same. Feel free to come here and thrill me anytime you like.”  


  
Liz was an amazing dancer, light as air on her feet and incredibly graceful for an eighty-five-year-old who’d had hip replacement surgery barely four months prior. Timmy’d told me she’d taught him to dance when he hit puberty, making sure he knew how to waltz properly so he wouldn’t embarrass himself during school dances at that stuffy private academy he’d attended. I could see the similarity in their grace and form, in the easy way they both seemed to switch off their minds and just let the music take them.  


  
I hit the floor with Liz a couple more times that night, as often as her stamina allowed and Marion’s brother, Thomas -- a soft-spoken “confirmed bachelor” who taught music theory at Georgetown -- agreed to fill in for her on the Steinway. Mostly, I danced with Timmy, though. Timmy, who couldn’t stop smiling for even a second, those baby blues of his alight with pure, unselfconscious joy. I’d never seen him happier, never been happier myself than I was right then, knowing that it was me, being married to the likes of _me_ , that made him feel that good.  


  
As the evening wore on, several toasts were made to our health, plus a few to our virility, which I thought was pretty damned funny coming from an upper-crust crowd like that one. When the time came to cut the cake, I held the first slice up to Timmy’s mouth so he could take a bite, and one of his younger cousins yelled, “Shove it in his face!” See, I hate that shit. What kind of asshole thinks it’s funny to humiliate the person they claim to love? I know a lot of couples do that and everyone thinks it’s hilarious, but it’s not my style, and it sure as hell isn’t Timmy’s. I flipped my middle digit at the guy, which drew a huge laugh from the crowd and an exasperated sigh from Tim, then fed him the cake like a gentleman. The way he smiled at me, then licked icing off the corner of my mouth once I’d had my bite, made me glad I did.  


  
Timmy was getting tired, though, and it was starting to show. Around ten o’clock, his hand closed on mine, and he gave me a look that said he’d had his fill of being sociable and wanted to be alone in the quiet and the dark with me. He didn’t have to tell me twice. Since we didn’t exactly have a bride’s bouquet or a garter to throw, I took off my tie and tossed it instead, then just about laughed my ass off when Liz snagged it mid-air and announced she’d begin interviewing applicants for the position of her consort shortly. We said our thanks and our goodnights and trudged up that wide, wide staircase, the party voices and music following us all way down the hall to our room.  


  
A couple of days after Timmy’d told Marion we were officially tying the knot, she’d presented us with a card stuffed with crisp green bills and a brochure for a gay-friendly ski lodge. “From your father and me,” she’d told Tim, though we both knew better. Affairs of state were more or less on hiatus until after the holidays, and a disturbing wave of marital fidelity seemed to be hitting the Albany area, so neither of us had much trouble at all taking a couple of weeks off for a honeymoon. We’d spent a sizable stack of those green bills on skis for me, plus what Timmy referred to as “suitable attire for the slopes” for us both. First thing the next morning, we’d be hitting the road in the “more dependable transportation” we’d rented and heading for Vermont, where he was planning to haul my uncoordinated ass up a snow-covered mountain, teach me the ropes, and presumably spend the next two weeks making sure I didn’t break any body parts I couldn’t live without. For the wedding night, however, we were fine right where we were.  


  
The house was big and drafty, and because we were so tired, both of us were feeling the chill. But there was a big brick hearth in our room, and in no time Timmy had a fire going. Someone had left a bottle of champagne chilling on the nightstand, but by that time we were both pretty much champagned out, so we decided to stow it away in a suitcase instead.  


  
I undressed him as he undressed me, making one of his rituals of it. I took his glasses from him, folding them carefully and setting them aside, then kissed him, long and slow and deep, before taking his hand and guiding him down onto the bed beside me. We lay on our sides, close but not pressed together, just looking at each other and touching one another everywhere we could reach. We didn’t have sex. We were both too wiped out to work up that much effort, and besides, it wasn’t like we really needed to consummate anything right then and there. We still were what we’d always been, what we’d been that morning and the morning before that. We’d just taken it a little further that day and carved it in stone.  


  
For my part, I was more than content just to feel his lips against mine, the smooth warmth of his skin beneath my palm, the faint roughness of his jawline as it brushed against my neck and chest, the silken glide of his hand stroking my side. I loved just looking at him, the long, slender length of him, the shadows and shades of him lying naked beside me, the flames from the hearth reflected in his eyes. In the years since, whenever I’ve been down or pissed or frustrated or afraid, my mind’s gone back to that night, to how good Timmy looked bathed in firelight, and it’s calmed me down, taken the edge off, allowed me to function again. It’s like a lucky charm I carry next to my heart, one that can never be lost, one that nobody can ever take away.  


  
After a while, I made my little speech again, only without falling to pieces this time. I’d worked so hard on the thing, and I needed him to know for the record and beyond a doubt how much he meant to me, how much it meant to have him in my life, to know he had faith in me. I needed him to understand that he’d changed my life, made a difference in me, made me believe in things again. He listened quietly, smiling softly as a single big, fat tear rolled down his cheek, his eyes telling me that he not only heard what I was saying and loved me for saying it, but that he’d known it all along. Then he repeated his vows to me as I pulled the covers up around us and we settled in together, my head on his chest and his arms around me, his right hand fanned possessively through my hair.  


  
“How do you feel?” he whispered.  


  
“Married.” I felt married, as married as two men can get. Hell, as married as any two people can get once they’ve promised to spend the rest of their lives together. Who gave a fuck if our marriage wasn’t sanctified by the law or the Lord, by Earl P. Shitkicker from Kentucky or by the Republican Party? It was sanctified by us, by Timmy and by me, by the strength of our love and our commitment to each other. As far as I could see, when it came down to it, that was all that mattered.  


  
“Me, too,“ he said, nuzzling my hair. Then he was out, slipping quietly into sleep with the words barely out of his mouth. As I closed my eyes and listened to him breathe, I sifted through the fragments of my life like so many pieces of torn paper. I was a fuck-up and I knew it, and I’d made enough bad decisions along the way to fill a book. But I’d always tried so goddamned hard, busted my ass trying to be a good son, a good soldier, a lover worth coming home to, worth staying alive for. It had never seemed fair that all that effort had come to nothing, that all my sweat and hard work and misdirected loyalty had left me with nothing better than a handful of jagged remains that spilled through the gaps between my fingers like a wedding invitation no one seemed to want.  


  
Then I remembered those two photos in Timmy’s wallet and the way he’d taken the tattered fragments of my existence and quietly, patiently pieced them together into a life, a real life, full of hope and meaning and comfort and love. Having him with me didn’t erase the past, and it didn’t magically make it all okay. What it did was put it in perspective, balance it out, make it -- finally -- into something I could deal with, something I could bear.  


  
I thought back to election night and the thing Timmy’d said that started me thinking about weddings and forevers and how good it would feel to look down and see his ring on my finger. I couldn‘t help grinning, imagining the rise I’d get out of him if I ragged him about it, telling him that when he’s wrong, he’s wrong, and he’d been wrong as hell that day. See, it may not always be staring you right in the face, and sometimes it takes a lot of work and some pretty big leaps of faith to search it out. But if you take the time to look, you just might find out there is some justice in this world after all.  



End file.
